Don't Panic
by Mostly Harmless XLII
Summary: Zaphod goes on a quest to unlock his brain, Ford decides to find out what a Hrung is, Marvin tries to find the question once and for all, and Arthur Dent for once takes the guide's advice to heart. Also, there may be a thinly veiled plotline.
1. Lost in Translation

**Zaphod goes on a quest to unlock his brain, Trillian tries to take over **_**The Guide**_**, Ford finds out what a Hrung is, and why it chose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven on an epic trip with memory lane, Marvin tries to find the question once and for all, Random discovers what an egg salad sandwich is, and Arthur Dent for once takes the guide's advice to heart in this all out grand and sweeping adventure to discover why the English like tea so much. Also, there may be some evidence of a thinly veiled plotline.**

**Disclaimer: Arthur Dent, Zaphod Beeblebrox, Ford Prefect, Trillian Astra, Marvin the Paranoid Android, Random Astra, the Hrung, and tea are all inventions of Douglas Adams and are in no way property of the rest of the galaxy or the british. Please read the official publications; they're really good :)**

_There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. _

_There is another theory which states that this has already happened._

Arthur Dent did not like Saturdays. Saturday was a day when one got up, sat down, ate breakfast, got back up again, did nothing particularly useful, had tea, and then skipped everything else and went straight to bed. Nothing much ever happened on a Saturday. In fact, Arthur often pondered if they'd got it all wrong, and God had actually chosen Saturday to take a break, and do nothing in particular.

This particular Saturday was exceedingly normal. Arthur found himself eating breakfast, having recently got up, and was looking forward to doing nothing particularly useful before having tea. The grand and sweeping universe seemed somewhat vague and pointless beside his vague and pointless existence on the small planet of Kricket.

In an exceedingly normal twist, Arthur was also considering going and practicing bird talk. It seemed a particularly pointless and useless thing to do, so it suited Saturday well. Saturdays, as much as he hated to admit it, were good for nothing but hating, and one could not hate a Saturday unless they did something particularly pointless and useless on it. Otherwise the day might well be considered a Sunday, and on a kricket calendar where only a three day year was celebrated, missing a day could prove catastrophic.

As he pondered the possibilities of extending his bird vocabulary, Arthur stumbled upon a nearby calendar on the wall. He realised that his birthday was the next day, and then his next birthday three days after that. This was exceedingly confusing for Arthur, who had spent his last three Saturdays either getting drunk or under the influence of massive hangovers from said getting drunk. The particularly blurry quality of the bacon on his plate hinted that this particular Saturday would be no different. He wondered if it had something to do with the large amount of alcohol he had consumed that Thursday, while celebrating his one hundred and thirty-seventh birthday.

The phone started ringing, and at first Arthur thought that a fly might have flown into his ear. Next he considered that the odd sound may have had something to do with the toothpaste moustache he had recently adopted. Finally he realised that the ringing phone was, in fact, the source of the ringing, and picked it up.

"Hello," he said into the receiver, wondering why there was toothpaste on the phone. "This is Arthur Dent speaking."

"Is there anyone on this line that doesn't speak bird?" wondered the voice at the other end.

"I speak English," tweeted Arthur, wondering who the voice could belong to, and why it wasn't chirping like the rest of his friends usually did.

"Do you speak English?" the other voice posed. Arthur realised that the other voice was speaking English. He wondered why a bird was speaking English, and decided that perhaps if he spoke English the bird would resort to a nice bird sounding language.

"Is that you, Ford?" he asked.

"Arthur! I'm glad to hear from you, mate. You wouldn't believe how expensive collect calls are from Betelgeuse Five." Ford's wavery tone sounded slightly off key to Arthur. He wondered if he should drink something alcoholic to make it sound less distorted.

"Ford, what are you doing in Betelgeuse? I thought you were with Zaphod and Trillian?" Arthur was confused. He was also extremely hung-over.

"I asked them to drop me off at the nearest pub. Listen, Arthur. I need to know if you still have that book I gave you. _The Hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy. _I need you to look up what a Hrung is."

"No one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse seven," chirped Arthur, recalling the phrase with another tweet.

"Sorry?"

"No one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse seven," Arthur told him, resorting to English as a last resort, "why do you ask?"

"What does the guide say about it, Arthur?"

Arthur did not realise it, but Ford was sounding quite desperate. It might have been due to the fact that he was being chased by a rather large Hrung which was on the point of collapsing, but both Arthur and Ford were completely unaware of this. A more likely explanation for his desperation might be that he had not been drunk for at least a minute, and had no alcohol on hand to cure his ailment.

"That's what it says," explained Arthur, still ignorant of Ford's desperation. "I looked it up yesterday, when I was planting my garden. I thought it might be a type of frangipani. If you do happen to find out what it is, do tell me. My garden is looking rather bland at the moment."

Ford hung up the phone, single-handedly averting the imminent collapse of the giant hrung, of which he was still entirely unaware, and Arthur listened to the dial tone, wondering why there was a fly in his ear.

Had he been less hung-over, he might of wondered how Ford had managed to contact him via phone from several thousand light years away. Instead, he sat around doing nothing particularly useful, and considered how long it would be until it was time for tea.


	2. Zaphod

**Will Arthur succeed at having a bland and meaningless Saturday? Will Ford find out what a Hrung is? Will we see Marvin again? Will the universe continue to exist as we know it? And will I ever manage to obtain copyright ownership of **_**The Guide**_**? Read on to find out.**

Zaphod Breeblebrox, Former president of the Galaxy, placed the crystal goblet carefully back on the table, and was not surprised to find he miscalculated by several feet. The crystal shattered against the beautifully tiled floor of _The Guide_ Headquarters, which was a large, thirty story tall building in the shape of an "H" on Ursa Minor Beta as the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster burned its way down Zaphod's throat. He looked down at the shattering crystal shards, as they danced in the reflection of the afternoon sun.

For a moment Zaphod thought he had seen the ultimate purpose in his life in those crystal shards, and then quickly realised it was just the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster frying the sinew at the edges of his throat.

Across from him, Trillian Astra drummed the table with her fingers impatiently. The source of her impatience was, of course, Zaphod.

"Zaphod," she spoke up, "Do you even know why we're here?"

"IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" was Zaphod's response, as the incredibly potent drink he had consumed reached for his lower gastronomy, and proceeded to try and yank it back out his throat.

Trillian groaned, knowing that 'IEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!' could not have meant 'no' more clearly if it had been pronounced as 'no'.

"I'm trying to get a job at _The Guide_," Trillian reminded him. "And you're drinking like a parrot drowning in salt. I know you can't _be_ sane, but please, try to act it."

"Why do you need me again?" gasped Zaphod, as he attempted to strangle himself under the deadly influence of his alcoholic beverage.

"According to the recruiting office, I need a parent at this interview to confirm that I have absolutely no experience in journalism," she continued with her reminding. "I need you to pretend you're my parent – as impossible a feat as that may be. Otherwise, they'll never let me become a member of staff."

"Oh," said Zaphod, clearly not interested at all. Musing at the ceiling, he attempted to look profoundly philosophical. "You know, I've been thinking lately."

"Does it hurt?" Trillian glared at him.

"Yes, actually," he replied, sincerely. "I think it has something to do with the locked of bit of my brain. I want to find out what's inside it."

"Oh," said Trillian, clearly not interested at all.

*TACTFULLY CONCEALED SCENE CHANGE*

"These slow, dimwitted, multicellular organisms," droned the robot as he stalked around the _Heart of Gold. _"Brain the size of a planet, and what do they ask me to do? 'Watch the ship, Marvin. Make supper, Marvin. Calculate the probability of the Strangulous Stilettans of Jajazikstak declaring war on the Strenuous Garfighters of Stug and the Silastic Armorfiends of Striterax, Marvin.' You'd think that after all I've done for them, they'd show a little respect for me. But nobody cares. Nobody gives a fried circuit about poor, dejected Marvin."

The robot continued to stalk, pondering the vast expanses of poetry it had begun to develop in its spare time. Poetry was almost all that was left for it to ponder, these days, and even that ridiculously broad field was running out of convoluted questions to answer. Already, Marvin had come to the conclusion that monkey's could have surpassed the work of Grunthos Il'Swamblumina in five thousand, seven hundred and fifty-eight million, four hundred and ninety-seven thousand, two hundred and fifty years, seven days, two minutes and seventeen point three nanoseconds, if supplied with an endless number of crayons and paper. Already, he had managed to predict how long it would take for the universe to commit suicide were it presented with a piece of vogon poetry, down to the demi-semi-nano -seconds.

He had even calculated the average lifespan of a muon to the nearest yocto -second. And yet still Marvin could find no purpose, no reason. He did not know what he would do if – no, _when_ – he ran out of questions.

"I am sick of being used," the unfortunately named robot declared. "I think I am going to do something useful with the rest of this futile existence."

Marvin promptly proceeded to generate a _somebody else's problem_ field around the nearby parking meter, and then promptly proceeded to promptly proceed in the act of stealing the _Heart of Gold._

As soon as the ship was in the air, Marvin set to work doing some seventeen figure sums in his head. He paused a few seconds for effect before commanding the computer. "Computer, enter a probability factor of one to seven point oh-nine-three-eight times ten to the negative seven-thousand and three."

"Yes sir," replied the ships's computer cheerfully. "Would you like a happy smile while I'm at it? Or a nice cold drink of freshy squeezed zechan juice?"

"Oh, shut up," replied an increasingly depressed Marvin. "These left diodes are killing me."


	3. Time in General

**Did you know a down quark actually goes down? I always thought it was some kind of convoluted physics non-sequitur.**

_The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy has many things to say on the use of Calendars. Most importantly, any calendar that fails to maintain a respectable lack of dates, times, or unscheduled flights to far-off countries is, in fact, not a proper calendar. To be correct, a calendar must omit all content strictly biased by or relating to time._

_This idea is based on the teachings of one Archaregulas Wanalagoogala, a physics and quantum lecturer at the University of Incorrectness in Devinshire, Oxford, Luana Quadrant Section ZLF-Gamma-C. The teachings of Professor Wanalagoogala clearly prove the discrepancies in the concept of time, as he explains in his three volume analysis, "The measurement, knowledge, sensuality and complete non-existence of time". Professor Wanalagoogala's works can be found in a boxed set from any Frans-Tramalyn Bookstore in the Whyral Arm, and are summed up by the Professor's accurate statement: "Time is a load of bullocks. If you think about it, in each second there are an infinite amount of points. This means that every moment in time is infinite. Since it is impossible to fit an infinite amount of time into a second, time cannot flow and therefore cannot exist. It's just our imaginations."_

_Professor Wanalagoogala is also famous for his work in disproving the existence of the metre._


	4. Brain the Size of a Planet

**Many things can fly. Time is not one of them. Neither is cheese.**

Arthur tried to get up, and found himself going in rather the opposite direction. As he fell, he was distracted by a piece of cheese on the mantelpiece. It was such an unlikely thing to be distracted by that Arthur completely forgot about trying to get up in the wrong direction, misplaced the ground, and found himself hovering a few feet above the ground.

Hangovers made it extremely easy to fly, which was part of the reason Arthur now drank so much. It was, however, mainly because he just liked booze.

Arthur was unfazed by his levitation. He'd done it so many times before that it seemed natural now, and the outrageous post-birthday headache he was sporting, which infested itself in his mind every moment he wasn't drunk, made it even easier to comprehend. Celebrating millenniums usually made understanding flying even easier, as they often fell on a day that wasn't Arthur's birthday and therefore often reduced his two day sobriety to one day. When they did fall on the same day, Arthur found that his hangover was rather worse than usual, and this usually caused him to drink the following day to improve his condition.

To take his mind off the incredible pain, Arthur flew out the window, twirling in the air and executing a perfect mid air flip, which would have been applauded if there had been any audience other than birds or semi-drunk Kricketers.

A white robot came up to him and asked him whether he would like a drink, please, and Arthur decided he would politely tell the robot to fuck off.

"Fuck off," he politely told the robot.

"Okay," agreed the robot, and it proceeded to fuck off. Arthur briefly wondered why it was covered in toothpaste before recalling the previous night's party. He immediately ceased wondering, and tried to block out the memory forever.

As he flew towards a tree, birds started chirping at him and he chirped back. He was amused to find that the bird chirped back in reply to his chirp. He greeted the response with a tweet. Yes, Saturdays really were good for nothing but generally useless nothingness.

To Arthur's great surprise, the tree in front of him suddenly turned into a novelty sized lemon. Arthur stared at the lemon, wondering if perhaps his last birthday had been a little over-celebrated. An image of the toothpaste incident jumped into his mind, and he decided that 'over-celebrated' was an understatement. Of course, it was not every day that one turned a hundred and thirty-seven.

The _Heart of Gold_ appeared out of nowhere and gently alighted on the grass beside him. Strangely enough, Arthur was not at all surprised, not even when a strangely familiar robot trudged out of the ship, looking up at him with an expressionless face.

"Now what are the chances of running into you, of all people, you miserable earth-bound creature? No wait, don't bother, I know what the answer is. My memory is more than capable of remembering a few simple digits. A probability factor of one to seven point oh-nine-three-eight times ten to the negative seven-thousand and three, I believe."

Arthur thought that Marvin's expressionless – and yet somehow extremely depressed – face was looking at him in a questioning way, and decided to answer the question, whatever it might have been.

"I'm drunk," Arthur explained in a chirp.

"No, miserable human," Marvin sighed. "You've got a hangover. How can I stand this? Brain the size of a... No, never mind. I guess you might as well come along."

"You stole Ford's ship," noticed Arthur.

"I stole Ford's stolen ship." Marvin replied disconsolately. "I'm off to find purpose in life. Perhaps the ultimate purpose to it all."

"We already know the answer to life, the universe and everything," Arthur slowly drawled.

"And we know the question too, fool. Only you're not smart enough to realise that, and I've programmed myself to not realise it until the right moment." Marvin sighed again, this time with an air of despondence. In fact, there was an air of despondence in everything Marvin said. Even the way he breathed was fucking miserable. Arthur was pleasantly surprised that he was sober enough to notice it.

"I'm looking for the explanation of it all. Why does it all work?" finished Marvin, in his usual despondent manner.

"Can't you just calculate it?" wondered Arthur, who had not yet realised that Marvin was speaking fluent bird.

"Of course. It's a simple logarithmic. I had no trouble finding the connection. What do you take me for, some kind of 'Desktop Computer'?" Marvin screwed his emotionless face into an even more despairing expression, that somehow managed to be sarcastic and condescending as well. Arthur wondered if it really was expressionless, or if it was just permanently depressed and never changed. It didn't really matter.

"I'm not a puppet," Arthur explained to him, knowing that the fact might be useful at some point. "Nor am I the queen of England."

"No, you certainly aren't," agreed Marvin in a non-agreeable tone. "You are British though. And you do like tea. So I guess you could probably help me with your sheer stupidity, after all, an organic life-form might come in useful."

"I like alcohol to," explained Arthur, wondering why he had to explain everything. "You're a frightfully silly robot, you know. Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"Because fucking shut up," Marvin told him, directing him into the _Heart of Gold_. Arthur was not surprised that he missed the door by several meters. He had to adjust his aim towards the nearby window in order to get it right.

"Fucking brain the size of a fucking planet," muttered Marvin as he followed Arthur onto the ship, being careful not to touch the electrical wiring of the door, in case he accidently transferred some of his depressing thoughts to the ship. It would not have been the first time a computer suffered a system rewrite because of him. "I hope this trip is worthwhile. I'll be so glad when I fucking kill you all."


	5. Perspective

**I'm amazed you made it this far! There's a fine line between humour and parody, and I've no idea which side of it I'm on.**

**I think another disclaimer is in order: I own none of the characters in places in this fiction that appeared in the works of the late Douglas Adams, nor does this plot mesh with Adam's original plot or have events in the correct order. This is almost as confusing as the original radio series... Please be sure to support the public release!**

**And review... **_**if you dare!**_

Zaphod followed Trillian into the offices of _The Guide's _Headquarters on Ursa Minor Beta, another drink in his hand as he staggered down the ornate hallways. The beverage he was holding was a Berulian Cocktail, almost as potent as the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster and even more spicy. Zaphod had once tried mixing the two potent drinks together, and as a result had been forced to have extensive surgery to stop his three livers going on strike.

He considered trying it again, and then unconsidered it. He wanted to save his livers for the ultimate alcoholic beverage. As it was, he had no idea what the ultimate alcoholic beverage was, but he was sure he would find out eventually. There were none in the galaxy that knew more about drinking than Zaphod. Nor were there any that knew more about becoming president, stealing billion dollar ships and becoming an outlaw all for a reason they still couldn't explain.

As they moved past a hallway decorated as an asylum, it occurred to him that perhaps he had really had a meaningful epiphany while looking into the shards of his shattered crystal goblet further downstairs. Perhaps it was about time that he found some perspective in his life; a meaningful perspective, not some pointless perspective that astro-physicists and religious zealots were worrying about. He would find a personal perspective which he could personally perspect, in order to gain perspective on something that he could value a perspective on, for his own personal reasons.

The locked off section of his brain sounded like a good start.

"Sorry Trillian, I've got to run," Zaphod blurted out, turning to sprint.

"Oh no you don't," yelled Trillian, grabbing his sleeve and yanking him back. "I've got a job interview in four minutes, and you are going to help me survive it!"

"But I've had a genuine revelation!" explained Zaphod. "I'm going to find a perspective on my life! I'll go straight, and try not to steal stuff for a while, and try and discover why my brain has that locked off bit."

"You were gay to begin with?" Trillian worried, glancing downward uncomfortably.

"Straight on the drink, girl. Come on! Come with me!"

"No, Zaphod. Once I get this job you can go, but right now I need you to help me get it."

"Oh." Zaphod gazed glumly at the elevator they were approaching. It gazed glumly back.

"Would you like to go down?" offered the frowning elevator. "I've been going up all day, so if you'd like to go down..."

"But this is an up elevator," Zaphod explained to the elevator. "It only goes up."

"You talk to me as if I have no feelings. Fine, up we shall go."

They bundled in to the lift, as it continued to moan and complain.

"You know, they designed me as a one way lift," the elevator explained. "They thought that if they made me only go in one direction, it would make the service faster. But it's so depressing having to climb all the time."

"How can an elevator only go up?" wondered Trillian. "Wouldn't you have to come back down eventually?"

"Oh, not at all," explained the elevator. "Once I get to the top floor, I'm programmed to teleport back to the bottom. So I have to go up all day, without going down at all. It's so depressing."

"You know, I have a friend... well, an acquaintance, called Marvin," Zaphod told the elevator. "You two would really get along."

"Does he hate going up too?" sighed the elevator.

"Shut up," Zaphod advised.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the elevator obeyed. Zaphod wished that the other robots he knew would do the same, once in a while.

"Hey, you just gave me an idea," Trillian exclaimed.

"Yeah, maybe you should shut up too," Zaphod advised.

"No, about Marvin! You remember how he once read Arthur's brain? And saw what the ultimate question was?"

"Yes..." said Zaphod, not seeing where she was going, and wishing that she too would listen to his suggestions once in a while.

"And how you wanted to see what is in the locked off bits of your brain?"

"Yes..." said Zaphod, still not seeing where she was going.

"So Marvin could read your brain," Trillian directed him.

"Yes..." said Zaphod, still not seeing where she was going.

"So he could tell you what is in the locked off bit."

"Yes..." said Zaphod, still not seeing where she was going.

He paused for a second.

"Oh." Zaphod looked pleased. "I just had a brilliant idea! I'll get Marvin to read my brain for me!"

"But..." Trillian stuttered.

"Yes, I am a genius," Zaphod beamed. "Do you want my autograph?"

"But... I..." Trillian stuttered, confused.

"Don't worry, baby. I happen to have a pen on me."

Trillian stormed to the far corner of the elevator, and glared at him menacingly over the half a metre separating them. "You are a condescending jerk, Zaphod."

"Does that mean I'm allowed to go now?" wondered Zaphod hopefully.

"No!" fumed Trillian. "Stay here."

The elevator doors opened, revealing the twenty-ninth floor.

"Well here we are," sighed the elevator depressively. "I guess you two can go now. I'll just keep on going up, I guess. Never going down, just going up. Keep on climbing, you know. It's so depressing..."

"Shut up!" roared both Trillian and Zaphod, hastily disembarking the lift.


	6. The unfroodiness of Mr Frodslewanser

**Do you know where your towel is? Because I do...**

Arthur Dent watched the planet of Kricket, his home for the past ninety odd years, drift away into the dark nebula which surrounded it. The humongous dust clowd slowly engulfed the lonely planet.

"Oh shit," he realised as the planet drifted out of sight, "I forgot to bring my towel!"

Mavin gave a depressed sigh. "You humans are so depressively forgetful," he depressed, "Oh well, I guess I'd better turn this ship around and waste even more time fetching this towel of yours. You don't even need a towel where we are going." Marvin's advanced mood altifiers somehow managed to make his voice both depressed and impatient.

Arthur cringed at the terrible tone in Marvin's voice. "On second thoughts, I can do without my towel, at least for now."

"That's so depressing," complained Marvin.

*SNEAKY TRANSITION (Bet you didn't see it coming)*

"I'm so very froody," Zaphod told Trillian as they walked through the offices of _The Guide _towards where they would meet her potential employer. "I reckon if they had a competition for froodiest guy in the galaxy, I would win it."

"That's right," agreed his second head. "In fact, the term "froody hoopster" hardly describes how hoopily froody I am."

"Which one of you is froodier though?" Trillian wondered, clearly barely but not quite entirely uncaring of whatever Zaphod was saying."

"There's only one of me," Zaphod told her. "Just because I've got two heads, doesn't make me two different people."

Trillian pouted. "Just shut up and try to act normal."

"I'm so froody, normal doesn't even exist near me."

Trillian sighed again. "Then stop being froody, Zaphod, just for a minute, or I'm not going to get this job."

Zaphod swilled the remains of his drink around his mouth, as his second head continued to describe his extreme froodiness. Trillian found herself completely ignored.

They eventually found their way to the office of her possible but unlikely employer. A door just happened to separate his office from the hall, and the door happened to announce that the office belonged to Maximillian Frodslewanser. As they approached the door separating the office from the hall, it sprang open and a small suspiciously fishy man walked out. Zaphod did not like how suspiciously fishy the man was. The man was so very fishy that he had gills, which seemed to have flared up while talking to Frodslewanser.

Zaphod had never liked half-fish people. They made him feel suspicious, and they just seemed so very fishy. In his short reign as president he had disbanded the Aquatarian commerce board, and closed down seventeen major seafood chains from Sagittarius V.

"Come in," said Frodslewanser, in a voice so fishy that Zaphod thought it belonged to the fish man.

Zaphod and Trillian came in.

Maximillian Frodslewanser did not look up from his work. "Mrs. Trillian Astra, I presume?"

"Just Miss Astra," Trillian corrected. Zaphod smirked.

"I understand you want a job, Miss Astra?" He turned to Zaphod without waiting for a reply, which seemed a rather odd gesture since he hadn't yet looked up. "And you are Miss Astra's guardian?"

"No," replied Zaphod.

"Good," said Frodslewanser. "Does she have any diplomas?"

"No," replied Zaphod tactically. Trillian made a throat cutting motion.

"Any credidentials?"

"No."

"Any form of legal identification."

"Probably not."

"Is she sexually active?"

"No, she's like a sloth in bed," Zaphod replied. He was joking, or at least Trillian hoped he was.

"A good bang though?" enquired Frodslewanser.

"Yes," said Zaphod.

"Excellent. You're hired, Miss Astra. Meet me in my office in ten minutes. Oh, and those clothes won't be necessary. I'll have a maid take you out of them, and put you in your office 'uniform'."

He looked up, smiling devilishly, and his eyes caught Zaphod.

"You!" he exclaimed.

"Me!" agreed Zaphod, and turned to run.

"Guards!" Frodslewanser screamed as Zaphod ran down the hall, towards the elevator. "It's President Beeblebrox! Get him!"

Zaphod banged on the elevator door. "Open up!" he yelled.

"Up?" questioned the elevator. "I don't want to go up any more."

"I'll let you go down if you let me in," Zaphod told the elevator.

"Pull the other one," the elevator said. "You just want to go up."

"No, I don't. Here..." he fished a small device from his pocket. "This is an electronic pulse generator. If I set it off, your engines will shut off and you'll freefall like you've never done before."

"Really?" the elevator was excited.

"Sure. Why not. Just let me in."

The elevator opened its doors eagerly, and Zaphod scrambled inside. The doors closed behind him, just as guards came in sight down the hall.

"You'd better hurry," the elevator told him. "Those guards don't look happy."

Zaphod pressed out a panel in the elevator's roof, and climbed out on top of it. The shaft led to a narrow teleporter just over his head. He was careful not to touch it.

He set the electronic blimp on top of the elevator, between its engines, and pressed the detonate button, just as the elevators doors were forced open and guards rushed in. The elevator plummeted immediately.

"This is fun!" exclaimed the elevator, exhilarated.

Zaphod dived for the edge of the shaft as the elevator hit ground floor, and his fingers caught a ledge. Below him, the elevator smashed into the solid rock foundations and squashed flat, pulverising everyone inside. Zaphod smartly dropped down, and waited while the automatic doors opened. He walked out of the shaft calmly, leaving the decimated elevator and guards to be discovered in their own time.

He found himself outside _The Guide's _headquarters, and wondered what temporal trick had transported him there so suddenly. He did not wonder for long though, as his attention was torn away from the surprising event by the realisation that his ship was missing.

"Oh bugger," he said, before a flashy green cruiser caught his eye. The refection of the two suns overhead danced on the shiny key in its lock.

"Oh."


	7. Extremely Hoopylous Froodiliciousness

**I am such a hoopy frood right now, I bet any chick would want to sass me.**

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _has this to say about un-froodiness: Don't (Except in the far off constellation of Dermos XI, where the word Don't is synonymous with Do). Being un-froody, infroodiless or un-froodialistic is the worst thing on can do with their social future._

_The Poolvaluvian Hop-scotch champion, Ferlando Endulopinusa, attempted to break the Poolcaluvain tradition barrier and become a un-froody in order to appeal to his rebellious teenage audience. This trick backfired badly when the general Poolcaluvian public realised he was even uncooler than them, and even the rebellious teens, all of whom where over the age of thirty and able to vote, elected he be expelled from their planet for his extreme un-froodiness. This example has been used in Poolcaluvian schools ever since to underline why no-one should ever attempt to be un-froody._

_Hence the "Don't"._

Ford Prefect sighed, and muttered to himself. He had been searching through guide entries for days. He didn't know what exactly he was looking for, but he had hoped he could find it. His eyes were literally square from staring at the guide's screen, and yet but he still had comprehensively failed at whatever he was attempting. Looking back at the guide, another randomly selected entry popped up on the screen.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _has this to say on the subject of Extremely Hoopylous Froodiliciousness: This state of extreme hoopyish froodilichiousness has only ever been reached by one person—the ever infamous Zaphod Beeblebrox, ex-president of the galaxy and voted number one star of the sub-etha net. The customised T-shirt reading "Zaphod Beeblebrox is froodier than me" has reached epidemic level in the southern colonies of Yertgleus B, after sparking a fashion trend so large, nobody on the planet dared to wear any other shirt else be bashed to death._

_The trends following Extremely Hoopylous Froodiliciousness have only been observed a few times, and though scientists from the former university of Maximegalon, in the Maximegalon Institute of Slowly and Painfully Working Out the Surprisingly Obvious Department, have been trying to figure out what causes these effects, the answer is yet unknown._

_To date, the only comment Zaphod Beeblebrox has ever made on the subject was a surprised exclamation of "Me!" when encountered by the gravitational pull of trouble towards Extremely Hoopylously Froodiliciousnessy people._

Ford put down _The Guide _and looked up into the night sky above him. Many things in the galaxy seemed clearer at night, but _The Guide _was not one of those things. After seven hours, its random generator still seemed to be generating only pages with the word 'frood' in their title.

He peered towards a distant cloud of dust in space, which was not so far away as he might have liked. It was the remains of his the planet his father had come from, destroyed when a hrung collapsed upon it.

Ford did not know what a hrung was. He did not know how to find out what one was either. But he did know where his towel was, and hopefully that would be enough.

He looked back to his guide to see one final parting entry before the battery ran dry.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _has this to say on Maximillian Frodslewanser: Who the fuck is he?_

Ford had a sneaking suspiscion the guide's random entries were not as random as they seemed, and he shook the book, as if the rapid movement might fix it. Sadly, he was too late, and the guide was gone into the dark abyss where things running low on batteries go. Sighing, he looked back up into the stars, and clutched his towel tight to his chest.


	8. A Random Dent in Life

**Mmk. This chapter is going to do some foreshadowing for events later in the fiction. It's also going to be a tad boring, because evil people are not as exciting as people who are extremely drunk.**

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy _is the world's leading source of knowledge, larger than the maximegalon über complete dictionary, more controversial that Guros Flangella's highly disputed novel "Fifteen ways to Ascension" and better selling than the Encyclopedia Galactica. This is partially because the guide is slightly cheaper than its prestigious rival, but also because it tells users about lemons._

_The lemon, says _The Guide_, is a small evergreen plant tree-type thing (Citrus limomnomnomnomnom) originally native to the fifth quadrant in the eastern spiral arm of the Milky Way, and is also the name of the tree's oval-shaped yellowish fruit. The fruit is used for culinaryish and nonculinaryishier purposes throughout the world , but is mainly just zestish and froody stuff. Lemons are commonly used for cooking, cleaning, science experiments and punishment for young children. Because of the tart flavor, this strange and rare fruit is considered pretty hoopy._

The Guide _also tells you what to do when god gives you lemons:_

_Eat them, _The Guide_ tells you, then FIND A NEW GOD._

Random Dent was eating a lemon when she walked out onto the bridge of the Zarzarkian Freight Ship, _The Sterling_. The overtly bitter fruit reminded her of the tea her mother had once given her. Tea from the planet that was supposedly once her own, but was currently nobody's, seeing as it was no more than a wisp of hydrogen floating in space.

"Captain?" she shouted to a vaguely beige alien who looked as if he had been fed through a printing press. "How close are we?"

She was searching for her father. The man she had never met, and who had never met her. Her mother had abandoned her at home to go searching for a job in _The Guide_, and Random had been left to sit at home doing nothing, and having an overall shit time.

To make matters even more confusing, she hadn't even been born yet. Zaphod and her mother had taken to jumping around in time in order to catch the juiciest parties in the galaxy. When they'd finally dumped her in some orphanage on Dermenoid V, with no number to contact them by, Random had found out that she wasn't even due to be conceived for another year or more.

She had resolved to do something about it.

"We're getting close, Miss Random. I'm not so sure about your plan though. Going so close to a dust nebula is dangerous," the vaguely beige alien, named Rupselwarden Flurp, replied.

"Captain Flurp, do you want me to do my thing again?" wondered Random. "I'm getting stressed now!"

"No, no Miss Random! We'll take care of it. Don't you worry."

Random smiled. She enjoyed being in control. Even though this strange and vaguely beige alien held no appeal whatsoever, she had come across many more ellegible men in her travels, and all of them had been very submissive. The trick was in the eyes.

Random Dent was a long way from home. In fact, her home no longer even existed. Therefore, whenever she was stressed, she let off a subliminal signal so powerful she could make almost anyone submit to her will. She'd tried it on herself in the mirror, and taken days to recover;it was potent stuff.

She'd had a lot of fun over the last few days. In most cases, there wasn't even any need for her to make others submit. A sixteen year old girl traversing the galaxy always drew a few promising eyes. It never seemed enough though. No matter how exciting a life she led, Random Dent was sick of life.

She planned to make sure she was never born... and she knew exactly how she could do it.

"So this is Kricket," the captain whispered as they entered a huge cloud of space dust. "Zarquon pray those guys never decide to invade again."

Random smiled. She knew her father must be close.


	9. Zaphod Brings the Ship Down

**Yet another Disclaimer: I own nothing, Douglas Adams owns everything.**

**To Disclaim this disclaimer: I own everything but that which is listed in the above disclaimer including the disclaimer itself, which I own without owning any of its contents.**

**To explain the above disclaimers: I own nothing.**

Zaphod's newly acquired cruiser, _Betelguese 746, _was a flashy green affair which was very shiny and well attired. The autopilot was highly competent, and this was fortunate because Zaphod hadn't bothered to check it before turning it on. He was far too busy drinking to bother driving.

To pass the time, he was playing an old drinking game with himself, and his left head was losing badly. This was probably because the first drink he'd had had been a gargle blaster, and he was too dizzy to pour his right head a glass.

The computer beeped away happily as it navigated across interstellar space. It had no idea where it was going, and neither did Zaphod, but the computer was still happy simply because it had been programmed that way.

"Mr. Beeblebrox?" the computer bubbled happily, in the same cheerful voice that all shipboard computers seemed condemned to possess.

"Yes?" groaned Zaphod, wondering if there was a sledgehammer nearby with which to hit the computer.

"I've got some terrible news!" said the computer, practically jumping with excitement and happiness, completely ignoring its lack of legs in the process.

"What?" growled Zaphod.

"We've run out of fuel!" the computer told him excitedly. "I'm so very glad to have been able to give that announcement!" It sounded as happy as it said it was.

Zaphod took a moment to comprehend the computer's words, and then realised their meaning.

"Holy Zarquon!" he cried, racing for the panel. He stumbled several times on his way, and at one point had to turn around and go back towards the control panel, when he realised he'd been going the wrong way.

The screens showed a strange blue-purpilish planet before them, which Zaphod's sparky new ship was on a collision course with.

"Computer, what's happening?" Zaphod asked deliriously.

"I'm very excited to tell you we're about the crash land on the small planet of Hoovooloovia!" The computer simmered happily.

Zaphod swore vehemently, and stumbled back towards the lifepods. Realising he didn't know where the lifepods were on the strange new ship, he swore again, and ran over to the sub-etha wavelength broadcaster. He had time to send one final message before promptly crash-landing on an alien planet.

*FROODY TRANSITION*

Trillian had immediately been placed under arrest following Zaphod's escape, under the charge of harbouring a known fugitive. She wished she could blame Zaphod for it, but sadly it was actually her own fault for once—she had been the one to bring him along to _The Guide's _headquarters.

Maximillian Frodslewanser had smiled at her with evil intent as she was handcuffed to a chair in his office. Now the police and security guards that had placed her there had left in search of Zaphod, leaving her alone in the room with him.

"Well, Miss Astra," Frodslewanser leered, "I think it might be time for your initiation into our company."

Trillian strugged, but the handcuffs held tight. "Before you hire me, Mister Frodslewanser, I'd just like to make it clear that you are the most repugnant..."

A guard rushed into the room, looking exhausted and horrified.

"...pile of horse-shit I have ever seen."

The guard looked down at Trillian queerly, and then turned back to Maximillian.

"Mister Frodslewanser, it's an emergency!" he declared. "You've been fired!" He waved a fax in the air, as if trying to use it as a fan.

"WHAT?" thundered Frodslewanser, and snatched the fax off the guard. He scanned the page with his eyes, and gaped in horror.

"WHAT?" he thundered again. " WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS THIS?"

He carefully read the page aloud, to make sure he hadn't interpreted it incorrectly. "YOU ARE FIRED ON BEHALF OF THE PRESIDENT. ZAPHOD BEEBLEBROX WISHES IT TO BE KNOWN YOUR POST MUST BE VACATED IMMEDIATELY. YOU ARE TO BE REPLACED BY... WHAT?"

"You mean, 'WHO?', don't you?" Trillian corrected.

"No," Frodslewanser explained, "I meant, 'WHAT?' As in, surprise and horror."

He showed her the paper, and she was amazed to see that the fax, sent by Zaphod, promoted her to the head of _The Guide, _by presidential decree.

"WHAT?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, now you've got it," agreed Frodslewanser. She gave him a death stare.

"Well, Mister Frodslewanser, it seems you are fired," she told him, and then turned to the guard. "Un-cuff me. I've a business to run."


	10. A Short Note about the Universe

_The Universe is unbelievably large._


	11. Yet Another Galaxy

**Sorry about the last chapter... I couldn't help myself.**

Arthur Dent was woken from his slumber by a fait beeping from the computer. He sat up, and stared around groggily. The sirens were off, and the alarm lights hadn't been activated. The noise was coming from the bridge.

He followed the _Heart of Gold's_ winding corridors towards the ship's control room, his head unsteady from the large number of drinks he'd rather recently stomached. Now that his days on Kricket were up, he could tell he would have to revert to galaxy norms again, and stay sober. The thought was both unwelcome and welcome—the latter because he was sick of headaches.

He came to the bridge to find the door already open. It was mumbling something in a low despondent voice. Arthur stepped closer and listened to what the door was saying.

"Not worth it... it's so depressing... can't stand another day..." the door was muttering.

Arthur inched forwards onto the bridge. Marvin was there, hunched over the controls. His metallic face was set in a permanent, expressionless frown.

"What happened to the door?" wondered Arthur.

"It said it would only open to President Beeblebrox," Marvin intoned. "I told it my perspective on things. Dismal, isn't it?"

The beeping console caught Arthur's attention. He looked for the indicator that associated to the sound, and found that the infinite improbability drive was cooling down.

"You used the infinite improbability drive?" wondered Arthur. "Where did you take us?"

"Why don't you look for yourself?" muttered Marvin. "I know you won't like it."

Arthur turned to the computer. "Eddie, where are we?"

"Hey there guys! I'm stunned to announce that we're floating on the edge of galactic quadrant F386 GH20!"

"Where?" wondered author, not recognising the co-ordinates. He rarely did.

"Just take a look!" encouraged Eddie. "You'll love it!"

The screens turned on, to real a stunning view. The _Heart of Gold _was floating in the middle of space, surrounded by dark. To their left was a massive spiralling system of stars tainted a strange purplish green. To their right was a massive panorama of spiralling star systems, stretching out for millions upon billions of light years. They were galaxies.

"So that's the universe?" murmured Marvin, hardly bothering to look up. "It's even worse than I thought it would be. How discouraging."

Arthur did not even hear the robot's sentiment. He was far too busy staring out at the panorama before him. As a wise man once correctly stated, the Universe really was unbelievably large.

"Computer," Marvin instructed, ignoring Arthur's amazement, "warm up the improbablility drive again, and take us to the laefeiutan spiral arm. That would be an improbability of three trillion, nine hundred and seventy two thousand, five hundred and ten billion, six hundred and thirty five million, four thousand, two hundred and six to one against."

The computer calculated for a moment, while Marvin mumbled about the ease of simple arithmetic, and how boring it was.

"Right then, Mr. Marvin!" the computer exclaimed excitedly. "Hold on tight—improbability is engaged."

Arthur felt the ship lurch beneath him, and he was suddenly and inexplicably turned into a large and orate vase. The _Heart of Gold _jumped almost instantaneously to a place deep inside the swirling vortex of the strange and unfamiliar galaxy to which Arthur had arrived. His copy of _The Guide _hung heavy in his now porcelain pocket. Somehow, he had a feeling that the book would be particularly useless here.

It was certainly not the galaxy he knew.

*TRICKY SCENE TRANSITION*

Random Dent screamed in frustration. "What do you mean, NOT HERE?"

The Krikket man in front of her held his ground, apart from a slight stumble to the left, which was due to the large amounts of liquor he had consumed. "I mean he left. This morning."

"Where too?" she demanded.

"Somewhere," the man replied with a slur. "Don't ask me."

"I just did." Random glared at the man. She had been so close to tracking down her father, and now he had simply disappeared. "How did he get off the planet?"

"A ship picked him up," the kricket man explained. "A big white one, shaped something like a shoe."

Random frowned. "The _Heart of Gold?_ What are the chances of that? They could be anywhere right now with that infinite improbability drive!"

The krikket man seemed to have run out of answers, so she stormed off, and then stormed back to the ship that had brought her to Kricket. Captain Flurp watched her approach nervously.

"Are we leaving now?" he asked.

Random nodded sourly in reply. "Captain, do you know any way of catching a ship with an infinite improbability drive?"

The captain shook his head and muttered something incomprehensibly.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"No," the captain repeated feebly, "but the Vogons might."

The cruel expression that suddenly appeared on Random Dent's face made him wish he hadn't.

"Chart a new course, Captain," Random instructed. "We're going to play a little visit to a very old friend of my father's."


	12. Improbably Likely

**I've been requested to write the next chapter... so at great personal cost, I will devote a few minutes to doing so.**

Zaphod sat up, and looked around. His heads were ringing, and he felt like he had downed a gallon of that Ol' Janx Spirit. Come to think of it, maybe that was the reason. He wasn't quite sure.

His surroundings were far less surprising than many situations he had woken up to over the years. He appeared to be sitting amidst a tangle of purple trees growing amidst mauve grass under a sickeningly violet sky. Nearby was a burning wreck that resembled a crashed Betelgeusian Cruiser.

He looked up at the violent looking sky in disgust. It was that exactly right shade of violet that made him think of murky yellow, which in turn reminded him of once drinking a pitifully weak drink somewhere in the western spiral arm of the galaxy.

Turning back to the burning wreck which resembled a crashed Betelgeusian Cruiser, he pondered what it was, why it was burning, how it had come to be there and why it resembled a crashed Betelgeusian Cruiser.

He looked up towards the sickening sky again, and then back down at the wreck. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the wreck was burning because it was on fire. Pleased with his discovery, he wondered towards the pile of metal, strangely transfixed by a few letters stencilled on the side of the ship. Upon reading them, he was stunned to find that not only did the wreck _look _like a crashed Betelgeusian Cruiser, but it was _labelled _as one as well. He wondered what the chances were, and turned to consult the ever annoying Eddie.

Suddenly he realised that he was not on the _Heart of Gold, _nor was he in any other kind of ship. He suddenly recalled crashing his ship, a Betelgeusian Cruiser. For a moment he stood still in shock. It took him several moments for him to recover.

He put the fiery wreck beside him together with the memory of crashing his ship, and was stunned to find it all made sense. Still, the statistics involved amazed him. What were the chances of having crashed on a planet in a Betelgeusian Cruiser at the same time as another Betelguesian Cruiser crashed on the very same planet? It was unthinkable, which did not really bother Zaphod—thinking was not one of his better traits.

Bemused, he stumbled off into the woods. Hopefully he could find a bar before the sky turned turquoise.


	13. Intentionally Vague

**Apparently the return of Ford is long awaited. So to appease those that are long awaiting, here is my next (intentionally vague) chapter.**

Ford looked up at the building before him and gulped. It was a fairly large building. Fairly large meaning quite large. Quite large meaning ridiculously huge. Ridiculously huge meaning that it took up almost a quarter of the planet on which it was built.

Ford gulped again, for good measure.

The Institute of intentionally vague knowledge was vaguely known for having information on almost anything, despite that information being vague on point of being considered encryption. Usually Ford would have steered clear of any large, organised organisation on the grounds that organised people rarely got drunk, and when they did it was because they wanted to be alone.

A quail nearby said something, but Ford could not understand it. Had Arthur been present, he might have caught the words, "could you please pass that salt," but their vague meaning would have escaped even him, despite his britishness. The even less decipherable phrase that followed might have meant something to him though—the quail's reference to tea would have made any good Englishman's ears prick up. Ford, however, was no good Englishman. He was quite firmly opposed to cricket, for one thing. His recent experiences with the Krikket Robots had done nothing to improve that image either.

Taking a final gulp—though he thought he might be overdoing it a bit now—Ford walked up the needlessly long staircase that led to the building's entrance. Several hours later, he reached the ornately engraved door that marked the building's entrance.

He ignored the receptionist that greeted him as he walked in, instead hurrying towards the nearest monitor. The room he had entered was filled with screens, each one connected to the vast computer in the main part of the building. The five thousand access computers took up only a square mile of the structure, which in its entirety extended more than seventeen thousand square miles. It seemed to be rather a lot of effort to go to simply to store vague information, but Ford did not mind. Not as long as he found what he was looking for.

_Hrung_, he typed in to the terminal, and waited while it accessed the needlessly large computer it was connected too.

"Tea, sir?" the monitor beeped cheekily.

Ford afforded it a bemused and slightly disturbed stare, and then typed in his search again. This time the monitor seemed to actually go to some effort, and returned some seconds later.

Ford read the entry it had brought up, and restrained a groan as his sense of despair grew.

"Nobody knows exactly what a hrung is, nor why it chose to collapse on Betelgeuse five," the computer read aloud, just in case Ford was unable to read the phrase.

For some reason, it sounded intentionally vague.

*AWESOME TRANSITION*

Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz looked down at the human before him and hmmed loudly. He was not quite sure what to do without the proper paperwork laid out on his desk, but his evil intuition seemed to be a good place to start.

At first he had considered reading the human some of his poetry, and then flushing them out into space, as he had done to the rest of the crew that had brought the earthling to his ship, but the human had proposed a different plan. One that sounded much more exciting, and would involve a lot more paperwork.

Quite a while ago, he had been issued instructions by a group of psychiatrists to destroy the planet of 'Earth' and all its in habitants. Of the six billion to have lived on the planet, only two had escaped, and to his knowledge, they had both been killed. The girl before him spoke as evidence otherwise.

"If I kill this _Dent _who you speak of," he mused, "then you will let me kill you. And if you're both dead, then there's only this... _Astra _woman to deal with."

He twiddled his grossly disfigured thumbs, and moved his blubbery lips into what could have passed for a smile had it not been so utterly disgusting.

"I accept your proposal," he said vulgarly.

Random Dent let a smile touch her own lips. Things were starting to work out well.


	14. The Cards are up, Mister President

"**Vell, Zaphod's just zis guy, you know" - ****his brain-care specialist, Gag Halfrunt.**

The Hoovooloo quizzically examined the strange alien that had collapsed on his front lawn, apparently swimming in its own vomit. It took the hyperintelligent shade of blue only a few moments to recognise who he was looking at. No-one else in the galaxy had two heads, three arms and an almost unbelievably bad sense of fashion.

"President Beeblebrox?" the shade of blue wondered.

"Urgh." Zaphod sat up, and then immediately fell back to the ground when he realized the world was upside down. He tried to remember how he'd come to be lying semi-conscious on a pine turquoise lawn, and failed to.

"Are you okay, Mr. President?" the shade of blue helped Zaphod to his feet, only to have him promptly collapse back to the ground.

"You... you're blue..." Zaphod managed to choke out. "What in Zarq's name is wrong with you?" He tried to pull himself up again using the shade of blue as leverage, but the edge of the shade was indistinct, almost as if this shade was only a tiny point along the infinitum of the colour spectrum, almost nonexistent among the trillions of shades of blue. This troubled Zaphod. Why couldn't the thing just be normal blue?

The blue thing seemed to take pity on his ignorance, and helped lift him to his feet again, which Zaphod somehow kept, if unsteadily. This confused Zaphod, as the shade had no arms to speak of, or legs, in that manner, or any edge of all. There was only one way to describe it: Blue.

"Come inside, Mr. Beeblebrox, and we'll get you washed up." The creature tried to lead Zaphod away, but he was too busy trying to find the creature's mouth on its blue blueness, and hardly heard a word the shade said to him.

"Mr President? Follow me, please."

Reluctantly Zaphod followed the Hoovooloo, which lead him directly through the pane of glass it used as a door. Moments after trying to follow, Zaphod found himself lying back on the ground, nursing his bleeding noses and yelling vague and threatening curses at the voliquitously violet sky for being so yellow.

"Oh dear," the hoovooloo mumbled. "I'm sorry sir, you'll have to use the window."

*TRANSITION THAT IS IN BETWEEN SCENES*

Several hours later, Zaphod found himself sitting inside a large house made almost entirely of glass, well bathed, better dressed, and with a much worse mood now that his hangover was almost gone.

"So tell me again how I know you?" Asked the president, having ignored the Hoovooloo's original half hour response.

"I was part of a top secret government project on Damogram," the shade of blue informed him. "A top secret government project which _you _stole."

"Ah yes," Zaphod mused, glad to understand something. "The _Heart of Gold._ How's the search for that beauty of a ship going, anyhow?"

"They're still trying to find it. No thanks to you."

Zaphod smiled insincerely. "I have to stay in style. Otherwise the public would get bored."

"Bored?" the shade of blue scoffed. "Zarquon's beard, mister president, you must be insane! Not only did you steal the _Heart of Gold, _but the press had us all firmly convinced that you'd crashed into a sun and been incinerated! Following that, word is that you stopped the krikkets from making war on the universe... again! _And_ that you single-handedly drunk every alcoholic beverage on Squilonius Beta II!"

"You've been misinformed," said Zaphod, smiling at the last one. "It was Squilonius Beta III. And those krikkets were froody man. Trigger happy, but froody. I liked their helmets."

The hoovooloo looked at him and frowned. "Well Mr. Beeblebrox, I'm sorry I can't entertain you any longer, but I'm afraid that there's a galactic criminal that needs arresting."

"You hunt galactic criminals?" wondered Zaphod. "Who are you after this time?"

"You," said a voice behind him, and Zaphod spun around the find himself looking down the barrel of a kill-o-zap gun. The man holding the gun seemed familiar, as if Zaphod had seen him quite recently.

"Hi, Mister Frodslewanser," said Zaphod nervously. "How's unemployment going?"

"It has given me a chance to get back at my enemies," Maximillian Frodslewanser smiled evilly. "And I'm beginning to see the benefits of it."


	15. Galactic Quadrant F386 GH20

**I think it's about time for another disclaimer: ****I own no characters, elements, or plot devices present in the original works of the late Douglas Adams, nor do I own James Cameroon's galactic blue smurfs, nor do I own the number 42... Please be sure to support the original public releases!**

**Also, I know it's been months... so I decided to make this an especially long chapter. Enjoy, everyone!**

The red giant floated peacefully amongst the debris that hung in the calm and peaceful vortex of galactic quadrant F386 GH20. Arthur tried to admire the stunning view from the Heart of Gold, but the screens blurred and deformed the picture every moment as the ship hopped instantaneously to every point in the universe as it travelled down towards the planet below.

"I don't remember the ship doing this before," worried Arthur, watching another random constellation flash by in the blink of an eye. "Isn't this supposed to be instantaneous?"

Marvin shrugged his immovable metal shoulder. "We're in a different galaxy now. The laws of chance change from place to place. Technically, no time's passing though. We'll be there right now, in a few minutes. It must be morosely confusing for a mind as small as yours."

Arthur didn't even try to understand; he just stared at the shifting screens and wondered where he might catch a glimpse of earth as they waited.

"How long is this going to take?" he asked the robot.

"Another few billion years. Depressing, isn't it?"

Arthur choked. "I'll be dead before we get there!"

Marvin frowned. "Stop being so miserable. It's so depressing."

"But how can I help you find the ultimate meaning to it all if I'm dead?" Arthur fanaticised.

Marvin gave a depressingly metallic sigh. "Oh very well then." He turned to the computer with a despondent whirring of robotic limbs. "Computer, factor into the improbability the variable of 7 to the eighteenth against 3. And be quick about it."

"Yes sir-ee, Mister Marvin. And might I say what a lovely large number that is."

"Spare me the aneurysm," Marvin droned glumly.

The ship lurched wildly, and Arthur was thrown into an improbably spiky cacti which had suddenly appeared through the side of the ship.

Marvin sighed again. "It seems the improbability drive is overheating from all that work. We've landed directly on the planet's surface. In a jungle, I believe. How wretchedly unfortunate."

Arthur looked over to find himself looking at a bizarre looking Marvin reminiscent of a Picasso painting. "Marvin," he said, quite amazed, "You've got a tree stuck in you."

"Do you want a fucking medal?" wondered Marvin, lurching over towards the computer's control panel. Ferns were sprouting from the side of his body, where the improbability drive had accidently integrated his metallic white shell with a plant. "I'll have to go back to the cybernetics factory to get this fixed. Not that they'll bother. They certainly haven't bothered to take care of these diodes down my left side yet."

"Hey guys," Eddie boomed cheerfully overhead. "I'm really happy to tell you that the plants we got caught in have gotten mixed with the system, and my hard drive is on fire! Isn't that exciting?"

"Shit," said Arthur. Marvin just twitched spasmodically.

"And I'm even happier to tell you that my emergency fire control backup system's taking care of it!" the computer continued. "We won't be able to take off for a couple of hours, but I'm sure you'd love to see the scenery!"

Arthur sighed. He wished he'd stayed on Kricket. "Come on then, Marvin. Let's find this 'ultimate meaning' and get out of here."

"Fucking... brilli-brilli-illi-il-il-il-il... il-il-illiant." Marvin spasmed. "I... I..." The stutter faded away to silence.

"What's wrong with Marvin?" worried Arthur.

"Just a moment," the computer chirped, "I'm running scans as we speak." Silence reigned for a few chilling seconds before Eddie came back with an answer. "It seems Mister Marvin has some plants stuck in his vital neural systems. You might have to wait for his system to reboot."

"How long will that—" Arthur's words were cut short as metallic fingers closed tight around his throat.

"I'm so fucking depressed," Marvin hissed at him, his black metal fingers closing tight around Arthur's windpipe, "I could rip apart the entire fucking universe if I had that fucking bomb... just need the stone, I... I need the stone... need... the... stone..." Marvin's fingers relaxed, and the robot stumbled back, muttering some senseless binary.

Arthur gasped and massaged his throat. "What the hell is wrong with him?"

Eddie chortled. "Binary switch, isn't it exciting? It seems Mister Marvin is having trouble reprogramming himself. Don't worry, he'll be back to his cheerful self in a moment."

"What was that about a bomb?" Arthur wondered, wondering when Marvin had become so good at choking people.

"I wouldn't worry about that, my friend," cheered Eddie. "Mister Marvin was just feeling a little binary sick. He'll be fine in a jiffy, just you..." Silence suddenly overtook Eddie's system.

"What the fuck is going on here?" wondered Arthur.

As if by divine providence, a gas mask dropped down from the roof above and landed at his feet.

"I would put that on," Eddie advised. "The starboard door was just forced open, and I'm really happy to say that the gas of this atmosphere will kill you in a few minutes!"

Arthur shoved on the mask. "What do you mean, the door was forced open?"

"I think someone else is on the ship, isn't that fantastic!" said an excited Eddie. "If my hard drive wasn't on fire, I could tell you who!"

"What the fuck is going on here?" Arthur screamed again.

This time a heavy club delivered divine providence from above. Arthur found himself lying dazed on the floor as his conscience swam before his eyes.

"What is it?" said some voice above him, translated into dulcet tones by the babelfish in his ear.

"Looks like it has fallen from the sky," another voice answered. Arthur could hear the strange alien tongue behind the translation. It worried him greatly.

"We must take it and the white thing to the chief," the first voice proposed. "He will know what to do."

Something picked Arthur up, and just before his vision swam black, he saw the strange figure that had clubbed him over the head. Darkness reigned, but the image stayed strong in his mind until his last threads of conscience were gone.

It looked like a giant blue smurf.

*A VERY DEPRESSED TRANSITION*

The light was bright. Really bright. Zaphod tried to flinch away from it, but tight straps held his heads in place, so that the light was the only thing he could see.

"Well, President Beeblebrox," a voice crackled overhead. It sounded like a broken intercom. "It looks like I finally have you where I want you."

Zaphod thought for a moment. "Do you happen to want me in a place with lots of really strong alcohol?"

"No, Mister Beeblebrox," the crackling voice replied. Zaphod realised it had to be Frodslewanser. That innocuous tone could belong to no other. "It happens to be a torture chamber."

Something shiny moved at the edge of Zaphod's vision, and a silver robotic arm came into his view, holding a case of some kind. Zaphod couldn't read what was on it; the light was just too bright.

"Now you shall pay for all the wrongs you've wronged me by!" Frodslewanser shrieked at the other end of the intercom. "Now I shall watch you writhe in pain!"

Another robot arm came into view. This one was holding something that looked like an old compact disk player.

"You're mad," Beeblebrox replied, trying to sound brave. "Give me some beer."

"Madness?" Frodslewanser replied. "You know nothing about madness, Mister Beeblebrox. But after I'm done with you, you certainly will..."

Suddenly the contrast shifted, and Zaphod could read the title on the CD case, and see the disk already being lowered into the record player.

"No!" he screamed. "No! Mercy! Please, I'll sign anything!"

"Too late, Mister Beeblebrox. You lost me my job, but you'll never lose me my satisfaction."

And for once in his life, Zaphod was truly afraid. "Please, spare me! I beg of you!"

"Goodbye, Mister President," laughed Frodslewanser, his voice fading away as the CD was lowered into place and the robotic arm shifted towards the play button. "Have fun with... the Spice Girls' greatest hits! Mwahahaha!"


	16. Imprisoned

**Exams... Oh Joy. Fortunately, I have fan-fiction to distract me!**

The gaunt figure huddled in the corner of the cell looked up at the sound of creaking gates, abandoning the dried mud he had been peeling of his face to watch as the strangely dressed Trifid guards dragged an oddly familiar body into his cell. They dropped the lump of rags towards the wall and continued on their way, straightening their open necked vests and adjusting their blouses.

The scuffled man approached the newcomer, edging cautiously towards the body, still badly confused by the unusual sense of centripetal gravity. M20 W83 Plural Beta III of the Trifid Nebula was famous for its impossibly fast spin, which saw everything on the planet move at a tangent to the actual surface. This was mindboggingly confusing for any sane person, and even more confusing to experience. Even as an experienced space rover, the man had no idea how the Trifids had ever managed to come into existence, when the surface of the planet was basically inhospitable without some kind of strong magnet to anchor oneself or a structure to the ground. The planet's inexplicably changing velocity also made it impossible to adjust to the planet's spin, as the man was, after three days in his cell, now well aware. Had he had a copy of _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ on his person, the man might have known that the motion sickness could be cured by a nice strong drink, but sadly his battery-dead copy of the guide had been confiscated along with any alcohol he had been in ownership of.

Slowly, and significantly dizzier, he approached the body, and immediately noted that the new prisoner had an even worse sense of dress than the Trifids. The new prisoner also had two heads, both equally recognisable.

"Zaphod, man, what are you doing here?"

The limp body of the president did not respond, so the man fetched his towel from the far bottom corner of the cell wall, and hurried back. He tied the fabric around the president's midsection, and twisted it tight until it was compressing Beeblebrox's lungs. The man then proceeded to jump on the president.

Zaphod sat up, immediately choking up a large block of solidified alcohol, and the man untwisted his towel. As soon as he was free, Zaphod jumped back against the far ground, and looked around worriedly.

"Are you okay, Zaphod man?" wondered the other prisoner.

"Must... not... eat... spice..." Zaphod mouthed.

"Oh, shit," said the prisoner, and proceeded to do a random impromptu dance that was as irrelevant as he could possibly make it. Zaphod responded positively.

"I'M GOING MAD," the president said, shaking his head randomly from side to side. "Why is there spice everywhere?"

"Don't worry, Zaphod, there's no spice. It's just the after effects of spice girls torture."

"NO," Zaphod screamed. "NOT SPICE GIRLS."

"It's okay Zaphod. The torture's over. Relax, and try not to think about mediocre mainstream pop music."

Zaphod failed to relax. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Zaphod, it's me! Ford Prefect?"

"Oh." Zaphod gave Ford a confused glance. "I didn't recognise you under spice all that dirt. What did you do to spice get like that?"

"I was trying to find out what a Hrung is," Ford replied.

"What spice the fuck is a Hrung?" wondered Zaphod.

"That's what I want to know," Ford replied. "Seriously, all I wanted to do was find out how my home planet was destroyed, and yet twenty nine thousand light years gone, and I still haven't even figured out what a Hrung is."

"Don't worry spice about it," Zaphod told him, attempting to shake the thought of mediocre mainstream pop music. "I'm sure you'll find out what a Hrung spice is eventually."

"Zaphod, could you please stop saying the word 'spice' in every sentence? It's really annoying." Ford paced along the wall, deep in thought.

"I'm spice sorry, Ford," Zaphod apologised. "I don't know spice why I keep on saying the word spice 'spice'. It's spice like I've been involuntarily converted into a spice groupie."

Ford shivered. "Zaphod, don't sound so depressing. It can't be that bad."

"It won't be, in a few spice minutes. Give me spice alcohol. Any alcohol."

"There is none." Ford waited for the news to sink in.

Zaphod stood still for several minutes, trying to think about how best to register his complete and utter shock.

"NO ALCOHOL‽" Zaphod screamed in fear. "What spice am I to do? I shall spice die of spice girls poisoning!"

"Don't worry, it could be worse," Ford told him.

"How?" Zaphod posed.

Ford paused, and thought about it for a while.

"You could be on fire," he finally replied.

*SCEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENE TRANSITION*

"Eddie's on fire," Arthur told Marvin, as they sat where they had been tied, their hands tied to a thick and surprisingly bendy tree.

"I know," Marvin groaned. "Miserable, isn't it?" He twitched as his circuitry sparked on the plant half fused through the side of his head.

"At least we're here," Arthur tried to sound hopeful. "Wherever here is."

"Yes, isn't it depressing?" Marvin hung his head. "Success is so very crippling. I don't know if I can endure it."

Arthur tried to remain positive, but it was hard when Marvin was the only one to sympathise with his hopes. "What are we here for, anyway?"

Marvin paused as his body convulsed, and then replied as dramatically as a cynically depressed robot could. "A rock."

"A rock?" Arthur asked in shock, just to be sure his headache hadn't made him mishear.

" A rock," confirmed Marvin.

"Is it a special rock?" asked Arthur hopefully.

"No." Marvin replied sarcastically. "Not very special at all. Just a rock."

Arthur was no longer even trying to be positive anymore. "They'll be back soon. What do you think they'll do? Roast us on a spit?"

"Sounds depressingly likely," Marvin agreed. "Such a miserable waste. Brain the size of a planet, and this is the fate I come to? I'm not surprised. I always told you it would come to this; some pitiful, meaningless ending."

"You did?" wondered Arthur, trying to remember having been told that.

"I'm telling you... noooo...ooow..." Marvin's robotic drone cut out, and Arthur heard the sound of his polarity circuits cutting out again with a high pitched whine.

"Fuck," Arthur decided, and remained sitting exactly where he was, waiting for the blue things to come and kill him.


	17. Wishful Thinking

**I realise I haven't posted for ages. And by ages I mean half a year. This is totally not my fault. I pass the blame to the ever guilty sin of procrastination.**

**From now on, I plan to update slightly more regularly.**

The blue things arrived. They looked ready to kill.

"Listen, guys," Arthur babbled while they untied him from the tree, "there's been some kind of mistake here. Please don't kill me. I'm too unsatisfied with life to die."

The smurf looming over him ignored him completely, throwing Arthur over its shoulder instead. Another two picked up Marvin – the robot was surprisingly heavy for something that looked to be made out of plastic. Sure, it was cold, hard, icy plastic of a depressing nearly but not quite exactly off white colour, but plastic all the same.

"Really, I think we could come to a friendly agreement here. No need to kill anybody."

They were moving now, travelling towards an unknown destination that Arthur knew would not be an absolutely massive tree.

As if to distract from the obvious copyright infringement which should have been disclaimed at the start of the chapter, the smurf bothered to reply in a poorly designed alien dialect that sounded like something that had been created for an over-budgeted action movie with a terrible plot in an attempt to make an entirely human-like alien species appear less human. Unfortunately, without subtitles, Arthur had no chance of understanding the ridiculously pretentious language, even with a babelfish in his ear. The language was obviously made up.

"I do apologize," Arthur replied, "I don't speak smurf."

"That's alright," the smurf replied in perfectly legible English. "The author doesn't speak subtlety."

In an unfortunate incident of deus ex machina, the smurf had a sudden heart attack, dying instantly on the spot. The rest of the smurfs gazed around cautiously, as if worried that lightning might smite them from above if anyone else questioned the author's sense of humour.

Fortunately for them, no-one did, and so another smurf picked up Arthur and carried him onwards with the rest of the smurfs.

After a long and tenuous trek, they finally arrived at their destination, which just so happened to be an absolutely massive tree. Arthur was stunned that he could have possibly been so wrong in predicting their final destination.

One of the aliens said something in their alien tongue, but Arthur again did not understand. He would have asked Marvin to translate, but the robot was still unconscious. In fact, Arthur was starting to suspect he was dead. He hoped that was not the case; Marvin was the only reason he had come to the smurf planet in the first place, and Arthur had no idea exactly what rock he was supposed to be looking for anyway, nor did he comprehend what he was to do with it when he found it.

His train of thought was violently derailed as the smurf carried him accidently smashed Arthur's head into something. The world suddenly went a lot darker, and he realised that they had gone into a tunnel of some description. It was awfully dark.

The darkness went on for a while. Arthur started to lose track of time after the first three hours and seven minutes, so he played a few silent games of scissors, paper, rock with himself. He won every time.

Eventually they arrived. Or, at least, they stopped at a place that looked like it could quite possibly have been the original destination, thereby implying arrival. The smurfs had taken them to a huge underground cavern, which would have been depressingly dark and marvin-like if not for the ridiculously shiny thing that sat in the centre of the cavern.

In fact, the thing was so ridiculously shiny, it made Arthur momentarily blind. That made Arthur question whether the thing was actually ridiculously shiny, or whether it was just so dark that it appeared light. He also wondered how it was possible for a shiny thing to be shining where there was no light.

He then quickly dismissed the blasphemous thought.

"You must praise the random shiny rock god," the smurf that had been carrying him demanded as it put him down. "Before we kill you."

Arthur spared a glance to the ridiculously shiny rock, and immediately wished he hadn't. It had immediately blurred his vision with a halo of light, temporarily burnt into his retina. Obviously the rock had to be the rock Marvin had wanted.

"Erm... kill me?" Arthur wasn't planning on ignoring that particular comment. "Why?"

The smurf shrugged its oddly human-like shoulders. "I don't know. For plot development?"

"Plot Developement? Come on! You need to have a reason to kill someone!"

The smurf shrugged again. "Your execution will commence in ten minutes. You will be subjected to..." the smurf paused for dramatic effect, "...death by unlikely plot twist."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "An unlikely plot twist, hey? Like the main character dying? I see how this might work."

The smurf laughed. "You think you're the main character in this fan fiction?"

"Um, yeah," Arthur replied, ignoring how utterly the fourth wall had been broken. "Who else would be?"

"I think Zaphod plays a slightly better role in this story," the smurf responded truthfully. "He does have a lot more action scenes than you."

Arthur dismissed the smurf with a wave of his hand. Instead, he turned his attention to the shiny rock 'god'. At least, he turned his attention towards it as close as he could without burning out his eyes. "Can I touch it?"

"Yes," the smurf replied.

"Really?"

"No."

Arthur frowned. "That's a bit of a clichéd joke, don't you think?"

"Fine then. Touch it."

"I will." Arthur started forwards, but after a moment's thought, he turned back to the limp robot that was lying on the ground where the smurfs had dropped it. "Are you coming, Marvin?"

To his surprise, the robot actually woke and responded. "What do you think, miserable earthling?"

_Not dead then,_ Arthur concluded as the robot hobbled after him. _Oh well, there's always room for wishful thinking._

As they neared the shiny stone, Marvin procured a very dark pair of sunglasses and handed them to Arthur. "You had better put these on if you don't want to go blind. That would be depressing."

"Gee, thanks Marvin. That's really thoughtful of you," Arthur replied.

"Don't mention it," said Marvin glumly. "You'll probably die of cancer anyway."

Arthur didn't know how to respond to that.

They reached the rock, and without pause for dramatic suspense Marvin reached forwards and touched the shiny rock. Immediately the rock ceased being shiny.

Marvin started to shine in its place.

"So much power!" Marvin said, slightly louder than his usual depressing monotone. "It makes me so miserable!"

Sparks flickered over the robot's body for an instant, and Marvin shook his head as if to clear it of demons. "Now we'll all get to die."

"I'm sorry, what?" asked Arthur.

Marvin looked at him questioningly. "Who are you?"

"Arthur Dent," Arthur replied slowly. "I'm helping you to steal that rock."

Marvin gave him an odd look. "What are you, some kind of suicidal psychopath? That's so distressingly gloomy."

With a flash of brilliant plot developement, the two of them were suddenly teleported back to their ship.

"Woah!" Arthur yelled. "What just happened?"

"Nothing, ignore that convenient teleportation," replied Marvin. "Now leave me, you depressing human. I have a lot of work to do before I get this ship running again."

*THE THING WHICH IS A TRANSITION BETWEEN THE THINGS WHICH ARE SCENES*

"Have you found them yet?" Random Dent asked, sitting back in her extremely uncomfortable seat and relishing the pain it produced in her back.

"Oh yes," replied Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz, almost revealing a hideous smile as he loomed over the ship's intergalactic map. "And we're getting very close to them. Very close indeed."


	18. The Plot Thickens

**You know how I said I would be updating more regularly? It turns out I lied. Thank you to **_**hatersgonnahate, **_**for reminding me that this story exists.**

**There are only a chapter or two left to go now, by my estimation, so hopefully you'll have your full story by the end of the year. Don't panic... there will be tea, and there will be cheese.**

Ford tapped the strangely triangular figure guarding the cell on a vertex. "Excuse me, we need alcohol."

The figure looked back at him with sorrowful comprehension. "I feel your pain, man. I haven't had a drink since I started this shift."

Ford considered this. "Listen, if you go and get us a drink, we promise not to escape until you get back."

The gravity suddenly shifted, and Ford was sent flying into the roof.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, man," the guard replied. "What kind of drink do you want?"

"Spice girls," murmured Zaphod.

"I think we'll need something strong," replied Ford, looking at his friend with concern. "Perhaps a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster. On seconds thoughts, make it two."

"Peace out, man," replied the guard, polygonning away with a strangely sinuous motion.

Ford looked around, contemplating their escape. The prison was heavily guarded, but he had an idea that might just get them out past the guards, if they could only escape from their cell.

"Zaphod, I need you to swagger for me," he told the suberised ex-president.

"In this spice state of sobriety?" groaned Zaphod. "You ask too much."

"The guard's bringing back drinks," Ford told him. "You'll be drunk again soon enough."

No sooner had he spoken, the guard returned. "Here are your drinks, guys," said the Triffid. I hope they take your mind off things." His task done, alcohol in hand, the guard turned his back and watched the hall, slowly sipping at something very potent.

Zaphod consumed his drink in a single gulp, before throwing back his head and screaming with some kind of primodial pain. "Oh yeah, baby! I'm back!"

Ford sipped his drink, screamed in pain, and then thoughtfully poured the rest of the beverage on the cell's lock. The metal disintegrated without hesitation.

With a heavy blow to the vertex which most resembled a head, Ford knocked the guard unconscious. "Now Zaphod, I need you to pretend you're still the president, okay?"

"You got it baby," said Zaphod with a seductive smile at no-one in particular. "Galaxy, prepare yourself; Zaphod Beeblebrox is about to rock your multiple star systems."

With a swish of his fantastic hair, he set off down the hall, with Ford in close pursuit. Stunning smiles and amazing eyebrow flicks saw the guards in their way stand aside in stunned awe. Zaphod's charisma was radiating from his body like the carcinogenic radiation produced by unstable elements in the higher end of the periodic table.

They reached the prison's ship bay without trouble. "Excuse me, ladies," said Zaphod, to a group of guards standing in front of a ship he liked the look of, "I need to borrow your ride."

With his swagger in full swing, he pushed through them like an anti-material bullet. Minutes later, with their ship long gone, one of the guards finally managed to bat an eyelid.

*Let it be known that this is a transition between scenes*

With the shiny rock in hand, it took Marvin little less than an hour to completely fix the Heart of Gold. Somehow, the technology seemed to yield to rock's power. Arthur got the impression he was witnessing some kind of miracle, but he was slightly too sober to appreciate it.

"Marvin, I really need a drink," said Arthur, ignoring the substance the ship offered him, which he was aware tasted almost exactly unlike tea.

"I wouldn't be worrying about that at the moment," replied Marvin. "I'm about to perfect the design Hactar failed to perfect. I will create the ultimate weapon... a device that will link every single sun in every single universe together, and destroy everything forever."

"Did you mention alcohol somewhere in there?" wondered Arthur, distinctly aware that he had missed an important point, but too sober to care.

"Brain the size of a planet," muttered Marvin. "Now I only need one more thing..."

"Alcohol?" guessed Arthur, hopefully.

"No, you blithering idiot," replied Marvin. "Fairy cake. And I know just who to get it from."

With a mechanical laugh, he started up the ship. The Heart of Gold rose from the swamp with amazing grace, before shooting off into the sky, never to return.

"Prepare to engage the infinite improbability drive," Marvin told the computer. Probability of 1 to the seventy three billion, four thousand and sixty-two against."

"Jeez, boys, I'm so glad to be engaging this drive," said Eddie, back to his usual self. "Brace yourselves... we're making the jump in 3... 2..."

Before Eddie could conclude his countdown, something large and heavy smashed into the ship. Huge metal bands wrapped themselves around the Heart of Gold, binding it to a much larger, rectangular shape.

"Vogons," Arthur managed to curse, before the Heart of Gold made its jump into the realms of improbability, dragging the giant Vogon cruiser with it.


	19. The Plot Unceremoniously Falls to Pieces

**You know what I said about me finishing this story by the end of the year? I lied. Again. Not intentionally though; I simply forgot all about this amusing project. Please forgive me, oh dedicated readers, whom I have so cruelly treated.**

**To make it up to you, I will be finishing the story in this chapter. Some of you shall undoubtedly shed many a tear over the loss of this story, if you like it half as much as you seem to think in the reviews (And honestly, I find it rather shocking that anyone could think that my writing is better than that of the late Douglas Adams. I think, perhaps, that the people who have said so have forgotten that I am simply taking a ride on the back of his enormous genius, and without his incredible writing to mimic and his most humorous characters, I would not have been able to entertain you by even a tenth of what I have). However, I feel that ending this story is the right thing to do by you, as there will be no more frustrating waiting to be done.  
Speaking of reviews, I have received no less and no more than 42 at this point, which makes it a very good time to wrap up this saga. No doubt you will hate me for how I have ended it, but I thought I might as well make it fit into canon, as terribly inconsistent as it is with itself and everything else (this, however, seems to be a requirement for HHGTG canon).**

**So here you go: the final chapter of DON'T PANIC. Enjoy.**

The Trifid ship sped through the darkness with no manner of grace at all. One could have described its flight as similar to that of a drunk 12 ounce sparrow carrying a rather heavy coconut on its migratory path. Of course, they would have been completely wrong; the ship was simply far worse.

Ford and Zaphod, in their quasi-inebriated state – more dead, really, than drunk – were not inclined to complain about the ship's motion, however, as it was nothing compared to the spinning of their own heads. Ford simply curled into a ball and rolled into a corner, hoping that at some stage he really would become dead so that his body might be cut open and the tiny shards of golden brick lodged in his brain carefully picked out post mortem. He did not know or care where the ship was headed.

Neither did Zaphod; he had simply shouted some co-ordinates at the computer and swaggered off to seduce a guard rail, completely unaware that his liver was mounting a mutiny against his brains, reasoning that it could do a better job than the enormous alcohol sponges residing in his heads.

The ship's destination, however, was not even slightly important. What was important was the fact that two ships, latched side by side, had just come popped out of nowhere and crashed into the Trifid ship.

Had Zaphod been in a better state of mind, he might have realised that one of the ships was the Heart of Gold, and the other was an enormous Vogon construction.

Instead, his words of wisdom at the event were, "Hey baby, I'll rock your world harder than that tonight."

The guard rail naturally gave no response, though Zaphod suspected that it did smile knowingly.

Meanwhile, a very depressed robot and an almost equally depressed and terribly confused human were busy barging onto the ship, the shouts of the Vogon crew not far behind. The robot headed straight towards Zaphod, its unchangeable expression shifting to a morose grin at the sight of him.

Marvin wasted no time with Zaphod, immediately drawing out a screwdriver and thrusting it through the ex-president's chest, impaling his liver as it crawled up through his guts and stopping its mutiny before it had begun.

Had Zaphod realised what was going on, he might have screamed something along the lines of, "OH GOD WHAT IS HAPPENING IT HURTS SO MUCH OH THE PAIN THE PAIN WHY DOES IT BURN OH GOD OH GOD IS THIS WHAT DEATH FEELS LIKE WHY IS EVERYTHING GOING DARK TELL MY FAMILY I LOVE THEM."

Instead, he engaged the guard rail with some carefully constructed pick-up lines.

Arthur, on the other hand, was less drunk.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" he yelled as Marvin carefully disembowelled Zaphod. "You're killing him!"

"I'm extracting his intestines," explained Marvin, miserably. "The odds are high that there are still traces of fairy cake in his system. Knowing my luck though, he's bound to have miraculously rid himself of every last molecule."

Arthur could only stand their open mouthed as Marvin pulled some strange contraption from his chest compartment and forced some of the intestines inside it. The shiny rock had also been mounted in the apparatus, whatever it was.

"Besides, he won't die much sooner than everybody else in this miserable excuse for a universe."

Marvin hit a switch on the device, and it started to hum into life.

"Prepare yourself, human. In another couple of minutes, you won't be doing anything at all."

Arthur pleaded silently to the heavens for the drink he so desperately needed. His prayer, however, was answered only by the arrival of the Vogons, which was by far the least pleasant substitute for alcohol he could think of in such sobriety.

"Father, I've caught up to you at last."

Random Dent was quite an unexpected sight, but after all of the unexpected events over the last few days, Arthur took her appearance from behind the Vogons in his stride.

"Who are you? Do you have alcohol?"

Random screwed up her nose for a bit, and then realised that this incarnation of her father had never met her or known of her existence. "No. I'm your daughter."

"No, no. That's not true. That's impossible," Arthur replied, quite matter of factly. "I couldn't possibly have any kids."

"What about the sperm you donated as a frequent flyer?" replied Random, grinning devilishly as the big reveal.

"I've never donated sperm," replied Arthur, even more confused and in need of a drink.

"Oh crap," realised Random, "we've come too early. In his timeline, I haven't even been born yet. If we kill him now, we risk creating a temporal paradox."

The Vogon beside her shrugged, raising a Kill-O-Zap gun. "If we kill you both now, I'm sure it will sort itself out nice and cleanly."

Random paused in thought, but seeing as she had intended to have herself killed anyway, she didn't really mind. "Fine, go ahead."

"There's no need for that," interrupted Marvin. "For in a minute, this entire universe will end. That's right, I have created a weapon that will destroy the entire universe. A Total Perspective Vortex of sorts, but in reverse. This device will, rather than showing me the entire universe, show the entire universe me and all my dark thoughts. Everyone and everything will finally know how it feels to be so lonely, so depressed, every single second of every single day. The universe will commit suicide, and I will finally be happy." He let his words sink in for a moment. "Miserable, isn't it?"

Ford suddenly unrolled from his ball and walked to the centre of the drama playing out.

"Look, everyone," he said, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've got some rather important news that's very pertinent."

"The universe is about to kill itself," said Marvin. "Whatever you have to say can wait until after that." And, to himself, whispered, "Brain the size of a fucking planet."

"Ah, but you see," replied Ford, "I've been doing some very vital research lately, and I've discovered that there's this terribly inconvenient thing about to happ…"

At that moment, a hrung suddenly fell upon them all.

*TERRIBLY INCONVENIENT TRANSITION*

Arthur Dent did not like Saturdays. Saturday was a day when one got up, sat down, ate breakfast, got back up again, did nothing particularly useful, had tea, and then skipped everything else and went straight to bed. Nothing much ever happened on a Saturday. In fact, Arthur often pondered if they'd got it all wrong, and God had actually chosen Saturday to take a break, and do nothing in particular.

This particular Saturday was exceedingly normal. Arthur found himself eating breakfast, having recently got up, and was looking forward to doing nothing particularly useful before having tea. The grand and sweeping universe seemed somewhat vague and pointless beside his vague and pointless existence on the small planet of Kricket.

In an exceedingly normal twist, Arthur was also considering going and practicing bird talk. It seemed a particularly pointless and useless thing to do, so it suited Saturday well. Saturdays, as much as he hated to admit it, were good for nothing but hating, and one could not hate a Saturday unless they did something particularly pointless and useless on it. Otherwise the day might well be considered a Sunday, and on a kricket calendar where only a three day year was celebrated, missing a day could prove catastrophic.

As he pondered the possibilities of extending his bird vocabulary, Arthur stumbled upon a nearby calendar on the wall. He realised that his birthday was the next day, and then his next birthday three days after that. This was exceedingly confusing for Arthur, who had spent his last three Saturdays either getting drunk or under the influence of massive hangovers from said getting drunk. The particularly clear quality of the bacon on his plate hinted that he was quite sober, though he could not imagine how, having, in his memory, consumed a large amount of alcohol that Thursday, while celebrating his one hundred and thirty-seventh birthday.

The phone started ringing, and Arthur looked across at it. He could have answered it, but he knew it would only be trouble.

Instead, he went and got himself a beer.

**So, there you go! It is all done, and you can now go and think about how a hrung could destroy a planet in one case and simply reset another in this case. Others may wonder why Arthur retained his sobriety when the timeline was reset. Those particularly sharp may note that Arthur ignoring Ford's phone call would not necessarily stop Marvin from trying to destroy everything, and may want to ask about that.**

**These questions will never be answered, just as some answers will never be questioned (unless, of course, they are, in which case things will probably get a whole lot more confusing). You'll all sadly just have to accept that strange things like this happen all the time to very drunk people, and can, if you really want to, just imagine that Arthur hallucinated it all at a drunken party (which would, quite frankly, explain the series as a whole, and the numerous different versions of canon).**

For those of you who do not hate me for pulling out dues ex machine (though I think it was actually moderately well foreshadowed, for fanfiction), I am a writer of proper stories as well as fan fiction, and have for some time been working upon numerous original pieces of writing, among them a horror novel concerning the hunt of a young child possessed by a demon and the struggles of facing mortality with faith (which is all very serious and pretty much the exact opposite of the above work) and a story about a giant conspiracy to blow up the world using bombs made out of passionfruit and socks (which you have essentially just read). I would not expect either of these to be published for a couple of years at the least, but if you think that you might be interested in reading some of my work in a couple of years, please contact me via this site and I shall be sure to contact you as soon as I have any work published.

**Thank you to you all, once again. I have been a very terrible person stringing you along for these last two and a bit years, and I am so very honoured that anyone reading this has still bothered to read this story to its end. Your support has been amazing, and you deserve far better than what I have given. I hope that you got as much enjoyment for your efforts as I did writing this story.**

Farewell! May you always know where your towels are.


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